


We Ain't Livin' in that Old Time Feelin'

by Husbandits



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Other, Scientist Reader, Slow burn (hopefully), Time Travel, bcause this kinda feels like that a little bit, is like medical kink a thing r something, modern reader, nonbinary reader, pre-canon mischief
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:47:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26136742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Husbandits/pseuds/Husbandits
Summary: You're not supposed to get attached to anything, when the research lab you work for jets you back a hundred twenty-three years in the past. Just get in, get enough data to satisfy your peers, and then get back out. Quick, and simple. But when has life ever been so straightforward for you?
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	1. And lo, the hues arrange to show it's perfectly clear

Breathe

The sky above you is clear, blue. No signs of smog or pollution of almost any kind to be seen.

Breathe

There are birds calling in the distance; a robin, a chickadee, and perhaps a finch, and the content chirp of crickets in the swell of summer.

Breathe

Your body is a jumbled mess of nerves and ice. The pit in the bottom of your stomach, the aching pain of your bones, the sharp spinning sensation in your ear screaming _something is wrong_ , everything is taut, ready to snap.

Over a hundred and twenty years flown by in three seconds.

Your legs are boneless beneath you, only keeping you upright by virtue of being locked mechanically in place. The heavy bag at your side is already dropped, unable to be supported just now by your slumped shoulder, thick pre-worn leather hiding freeze-dried rations, enough carefully manufactured cash to get you lodging and the beginnings of a livelihood, decent enough bedding considering the lightweight nylon covered by authentically manufactured wool, a carefully hidden and safeguarded cache of medical supplies and equipment for your mission, and enough recording devices for at least three years of records. Not that you'll be here more than a month or two, hopefully.

As your body reaccustoms to the even flow of time, its automatic processes start back up; you stop having to manually force yourself to breathe, the ice settling in your veins begins to shift again. Warmth slowly, languidly spreads back through your body, and like a reptile in the sun, you soak up the natural UV rays around you. The thick, heavy cotton of your attire, linen work shirt that's been hand-faded and comfortably softened, thick, wool vest protecting your chest and keeping the rations tucked in the inner pockets secure, and a pair of high-waisted kneepants held up by thickly woven suspenders that have become surprisingly comfortable, now that you think about them. There's a plain kerchief at your neck that you untie and tuck away without hesitation, relishing the feel of the cool breeze against the nape of your neck. It carries the faint scent of flowers in bloom, the distant hint of pine, and you can't help but grin.

The air is crisp, clean. Everything in sight untouched by human civilization...

"You, ah, you lost, sir?" A deep voice behind you startles you from your daze. Slowly, limbs still sleep-heavy and difficult to maneuver, you turn to see a man staring at you, the outline of a wide-brimmed hat obscuring the upper part of his expression. He has a puzzled, worried look, one hand resting at his side like something from an old western, and just beyond you can make out the thick shadow of a horse outlined in the trees behind him. There's something else, some shape behind him, but you ignore the figure after just a moment. It's just a shadow, if not a figment of your dizzy, disoriented brain.

You shake your head, not turning to address him properly or allowing the note of vague gender euphoria his words summon to register physically. "No, I'm fine. Just enjoying the, er, morning." At least, you hope it's morning. The early-summer sun is warm, bright, though not yet beating down on you. You don't know which way is east, but the sun is still low in the sky. "Just going for a bit of a stroll, you know?"

A grunt. He doesn't seem convinced. "You're goin' for a walk 'thout a horse, with no cabin for miles around?"

At that, you freeze again. There's no answer, not for a long while, and for a second you just stand there, a choked syllable at your lips. At your silence, he frowns in suspicion, the cowboy drawing back and pulling one hand to his hip in a less than subtle motion. You're not naive enough to miss the veiled threat, whether or not it's intentionally directed.

"I-I..." You manage, after what feels like too long of silence. Give him a wide-eyed, terrified look, all wonder suddenly gone from your mind. All of a sudden you are alone, lost in the American wilderness, no comfort, or familiarity, or anything you know to be reliable for miles, decades upon decades. There is no back-up, no one to catch you. Nothing to stop you from getting robbed, getting _murdered_ by this random stranger in a field in the middle of nowhere.

In the moments you've spent panicking, lost in your anxieties, the man has crossed over to stand in front of you, one hand on his temple, leather brim of his hat tipped back. From here you can see the furrowed line of his worried brow, the tired lines accumulating under his eyes. The way his broad shoulders fall at your panic, the tension falling from thick biceps.

"Look, fella..." He sighs, one hand resting idly on his hip exhaustedly, no sign of the steel you'd seen flashing in the sunlight. He tips his hat back further, regarding you with a guarded look, and you find yourself momentarily lost in those surprisingly kind eyes. "I got somewhere to be, and folks're gonna start gettin' pissy if I take too much longer. You want a ride to town? Reckon it wouldn't be too much fuss to drop y'off in Farbrook."

You breathe at that. The world stills, your breathing slowing back down. Nod, deliberating for just a moment as you bend to collect your bag. "Y- uh, Yeah, that sounds alright. If it's not too much trouble. Thank you, by the way."

The man gives a dismissive guff, and turns away for a moment, whistling to urge the distant shadow of his horse over to the two of you. Mutters something under his breath, low enough that you can only catch something about "damn bleedin' heart," but it's enough to make you smirk. With a grunt of effort, you pull the heavy bag over your shoulder and make your way over to the horse when he gestures for you, noting the way he starts; as if wanting to march over and take it for you. You quicken a bit in response, nervousness and pride getting the better of you.

The animal is huge and imposing, with a dark brown coat and long black mane carefully bound up in neat plaits; a white diamond on its forehead, and sock-like markings on each leg. Deep brown eyes that regard you with both indifference and curiosity. You're not experienced enough with the breed standards of horses in this era to be able to tell whether or not it's usual for its breed, but the big thing stands worryingly taller than you, and a quick note of apprehension floods through you again. The horse stares blankly at your hesitation, nose absently bobbing as it takes in your surely strange scent. You note the faded saddle on it, the leather cracking at its sides from wear. The pile of animal skins sitting idly on its rear, seemingly nothing to keep them in place but luck.

"Alright, up you get," the man huffs, taking your delicate bag with a none-too-careful toss, swinging the entire thing up onto the horse as if it's nothing at all. "Ain't got time to waste."

You nod, clearing your throat even as you balk at how to approach this situation. There were, of course, several drills in horseback riding included in your preparation for this mission, but you find most of the information sliding out of your head now, faced with the huge and very real animal before you.

Still, you press on. Carefully hook your left foot into the stirrup, and then use the leverage to pull yourself up and onto the massive horse, in one clean line of action. Or as close to it as you can manage, movements stilted and ineffective with unfamiliarity, with the daunting task you're faced with. The man chuffs in amusement, watching you struggle up the animal, and holds its reins with a lax hold, one hand patting against its neck soothingly.

He gives you just a hint of a toothy grin, and then slides up onto the horse after you as if it's the most natural thing, easing in front of you and pushing you back just a bit, to perch somewhere between the seat of the saddle and the stack of furs and your bag. You're aware, very suddenly, of the intimacy of all of this. The closeness of your bodies, his wide hips pressed just a bit against yours. You fight the urge to scoot back further, give him a bit of space, staying perched on the back of the saddle, and subsequently pressed up against him instead.

"Y'alright back there?" He grunts, and then sets off with a flick of his wrists without waiting for an answer. The horse nickers in response, clearly happy to get going, bouncing and jostling you without care. From where you're sitting, the bumps of the road get especially jarring, amplified by where you're sitting and the jostling person next to you.

You round a corner, and you have to struggle to stay on, squeezing your knees together instinctively, even if the horse gives a whinny of protest.

"Y'know, you can hold on if you want," The man grunts, as you try not to squeeze so tight and nearly slide right off, the mounting speed too much to think about. "I ain't gonna bite, mister, uh,"

You give him your name, sliding one tentative arm around his thick waist. He repeats it back, the word sounding good on his lips, and then gives you his.

Arthur.

~

When Arthur drops you off in Valentine, you're not sure quite where to go next. There are a dozen ideas buzzing around your head, but it's all too much to figure out a plan of attack.

You need a horse, more long-lasting supplies; the meager amount of things you'd brought weren't designed to last, not in the harsh conditions you'll be living in, not when they need to leave no trace of their existence. A gun, even if you don't have the stomach to use it. The harsh reality of all of this is more than apparent to you now, despite your unlikely fortune with Arthur, and it feels naive to not at least have the pretense of a defense. A stable base of operations, somewhere out away from all the modest bustle of civilization, somewhere you can set up your instruments and not be interrupted, and yet not likely to attract attention. Some sort of cover for what you're doing out there, something to get people to leave you be. And, despite all of those far more essential needs, you can't help but lament the feeling of sweat beading up on your skin and soaking into your clothes, ever-so-slightly sticky and gross, and begging for at least a quick rinse. 

You stand there a moment, weighing your options. Mentally calculating, the small amount of cash you'd been sent off with seeming less and less like a stable source of support, and more like pocket change, but then that had been part of the design, hadn't it?

When you break back into motion, eyeing your way to the big barn-like structure by the end of town, the more expensive, essential of your needs in mind, you're vaguely aware that Arthur has wandered off. His horse is tied, loosely, to a post nearby, and the stack of animal skins have been swept from the creature's back, leaving the faintest hint of blood in their wake.

Well, so much for a thank you.

You decide to give the horse a friendly-enough farewell instead, gently running your fingers down the soft fur from it's forehead to nose, thanking both the horse and it's rider for the rough trip into town, before turning to the road ahead. Wary of the nasty, almost soupy-looking mud caking the ground, you step carefully, keeping to the boarded sidewalk until there's no option but to step into the muck. 

Well-ingrained instinct takes over, as you cross what passes for a street here, looking across both avenues of the rudimentary street before you dare even hop down, and when you do, the height difference between the soft muck and the wooden railing catches you off guard, your leg threatening to overbalance. Embarrassment wells up for just a moment, and you gather a firmer hand on your bag, taking a deep, grounding breath (and getting a lungful of whatever is festering beneath your feet) and staunchly marching across the muck to the horse stables, doing your best to ignore the squelch of mud, rainwater (?), and horse shit beneath your shoes.

When you arrive at the big, barn-like building, your nice boots have been coated with a layer of sludge and you have half a mind to turn around and just leave it, not wanting to drag all of your mess inside, but you ignore the urge. Just push your way through the big barn doors, and ignore the guilty feeling for the mess you must be tracking inside. You look around for someone to speak to and are swiftly drawn to the knowledgeable, if seemingly disinterested, young-looking young man who's slouched against an empty wooden stall not far from the open door, fatigue clear in the slow, overly casual way he turns to look at you.

"You're, ah, I s'pose you're looking for a horse?" He grunts, gesturing at something, though you don't quite see what. "Seein' as you ain't got anythin' to stable with ya..."

You nod, shifting the weight of your bag from one shoulder to the other, and the man offers a nod, but doesn't move from where he's leaning. "'Fraid it'll be a bit b'fore Murph gets done with his business, 'less." He frowns, giving you another once over, and you fight the urge to cover the more feminine of your curves. "Unless, ah... You're that fella we was supposed to talk to 'bout them racehorses? Damn 'brigand' never did show up...."

You frown at that, but shake your head. Whatever nonsense he's talking about, you're determined not to get involved in it. Just stick to your mission, gather what you need, and be gone. "No, I'm not here about any racehorses really, just looking for a normal riding horse." You add, not even considering the implications of your words, kicking at a loose patch of straw with your boot absently, "not that picky about it either, to be honest..."

He grunts. Doesn't move, for a moment, weighing something over with a calculated expression you don't notice.

After a long, quiet moment of you getting lost in the oddly satisfying routine of turning over the straw littered all over the floor, and him carefully considering his options, the man startles you with a heavy sigh, and gets to his feet with a groan, gesturing for you to follow. "Alright, come on then. Got some new filly in just last night, if you're in a hurry. Not too sure her papers're together, if you get the meanin', the man pitchin' her was a real character, so boss's lookin' to get her sold right quick." He glances back at you again, sharp and quick, and this time you don't fail to see the concern in his expression. "'d be a cheap fare, sir."

You hum at that, and fall in step, one hand supporting the weight of your bag as you pick up the pace a bit. Mentally calculating the risk yourself, weighing the lower price, versus the risk of the horse being stolen. Not that you care too much, your own legal paperwork nonexistent, of course.

When the man finally lets up, leading you around back to where a few more horses are tied up; these with a bit more dirt stuck to their coats, and saddles either on their backs or set alongside the stall for safekeeping, he gestures for you to stay put and then strides up to where another dust-and-sweat covered man is talking in displeased tones with an old man perhaps an inch or so shorter than him.

"Got an offer on that bloodweed, boss!" He calls, and the older man perks up in response, slapping the other on the shoulder with a bright grin despite the man's dour look.

"See, now I told you she'd be easy money," he assures, and then his gaze lands on you. As you approach, cautiously sidling along behind the other man, he offers you a warm smile. "That is a fine horse you've got your eye on, sir. Been through a bit of a rough patch I'll admit, but she's a fighter..."

You nod at that, silent, a sheepish grin rising to your face, the uncomfortable sensation of school presentations coming to mind as all eyes turn to you, briefly. The taller, broader man grunts something the older must not like, because he turns from you with a huff, grunting something back you can't quite make out.

You take that as your queue to bug off, turning your attention away from the other people and focusing on the horse, presumably the one they've been arguing over, before you.

She's an endearing thing; big, but not quite as big as the one you'd ridden earlier. Her coat is light grey, dappled all over with darker spots and white patches, and her nose shows an adorable mix of pink and grey skin. Her eyes are bright blue, fixating on you with intensity, though she has to swing her whole head to look straight at you, blinders cutting off her peripheral vision. There's a thick, seemingly fresh scar at her side, long and thin, and quite a few more, older and faded, now that you notice. Her hair is cut very short, choppy and seemingly done haphazardly, and you can't help but notice that what had seemed like normal, healthy skin on her hose is actually warm(er than it should be) to the touch, faded red and seemingly painful when you gently touch with one hand.

A sad state, but she's still utterly gorgeous.

You can't fight the gentle grin that breaks across your face as she reaches out, nosing at your withdrawn hand curiously, and bite back the soft babytalk that rises to your tongue. For just a moment you indulge, offering her your arm to sniff and running a hand across her neck soothingly.

"She's a purebred Andalusian racer," The man from earlier, brisk and graceful with neatly styled grey hair and sharp eyes, is suddenly at your side, one arm resting on the wooden railing casually. He seems intent to sell you on this horse in particular, giving you something of a sales pitch, skills and traits rattling off and not really sinking in in the slightest. "Although I suppose you can probably tell all that yourself, just from looking at her, can't you?"

You blink, and give a shaky nod to try to cover up the fact that you don't really have more than the barest understanding of horses. "She's, uh, she does look pretty stunning..."

"She's two hundred, if you wanna take her as is." The gruff man he'd been talking to earlier speaks up, suddenly beside you as well. Pushes forward, and without a word the older man shifts back, letting him take up all of your focus. "Another 50 for tack and supplies."

"O-Oh," is all you can say. Frown a moment, weighing the price. It feels like a huge chunk of your budget. But then there's no way that a horse _won't_ **** be expensive, and you're definitely going to need one, if you want to wander out away from the towns and all the people. And there's no guarantee if you'd find a better offer somewhere else. If this is really the great deal they say she is, and she's not secretly more injured than she appears to be. And she looks like such a sweet horse, you can't bear to just... leave her here. "I guess... yeah, alright. Give me a second here..."

When you finally make up your mind, setting your bag down momentarily to dig through for the leather wallet of your cash, the older man slinks away subtlely, so discreet that you don't even notice he's vanished when you pull the wallet out, carefully counting the cash out before you hand it over. "Alright, there we go. And, uh, yeah, I'd like all the t-tackle and stuff, too, please."

A nod. He takes the wad of cash with a grunt, hat overshadowing his expression entirely, and after giving the stack a quick flip-through, he turns away, letting you get at the horse unguarded. 

His deep voice rings out, startling you and causing the horse to spook a bit, flailing around to find the source of the noise, "Louis! Get this mare set up with tack!"

Louis- the same man that'd greeted you at the front of the building, slides back into view with a guarded expression, ushering you away from the mare with a quick gesture, as he swings the gate open, approaching the horse with arms thrown up for her to see, almost worried she'll bite or something. "Alright then, let's see what you've got here...."

~

When you've finally got all of your things together, with a handful of sugar cubes and several apples tossed in as well, seemingly unaccounted for, you take the mare outside, leading your new horse out through the main barn doors. 

She'll need a name, something distinct, but that thought is far from your mind as you make you way out from the front entrance, a familiar voice coming not far from the building. Two voices, in fact, though Murphey's more muted tones aren't apparent for a bit.

"There you are, son! Thought you'd up and ran out on us, for a minute there..." The cheerful, almost forcefully so, man from earlier, who'd helped you settle on your horse. There's a muted, almost distrusting grunt from his side, and then the faintest sound of hand meeting clothed shoulder.

The answering voice is decidedly more gruff, as if the man speaking is already bracing himself for a scolding. "Yeah, 'pologies for that, had to make a trip t'the doctor for Miss Grimshaw, and then suddenly everyone's got little errands they ain't got around to makin'...."

It's Arthur.

Shaking yourself out of the urge to listen in, you jump back into motion with a soft pull on the horse's reins, not lingering long enough to hear whatever racehorse-related business the pair are apparently involved in, shouldering your bag again with a soft grunt instead and leading your horse quietly out of the stables. You get the feeling that you should be riding her out to town, that is the main thing you bought her for, after all, but caution stays your hand. You're still not very experienced with riding horses, unused to the action and a little uncoordinated from the uncomfortably heavy clothing you're wearing, and don't relish the idea of eating mud in front of all these people, especially after your show of naiveté earlier. Especially this particular mud, more horse shit than dirt to begin with.

So instead, you lead the mare outside, a hand on her neck, and let yourself take a moment to gather yourself. Recenter, coming back to a more confident frame of mind and drawing focus on the tasks before you. 

Eventually, the pair of you head back down the mucky street, and she offers a disinterested flip of her tail as you tie her back up at one of the fence posts conveniently placed outside the general store. The idea of more serious protection is pushed aside, at least for today, since you've already spent so much, but you can't head back out into the wilderness to find a main base of operations until you've at least got something more enticing than dehydrated fruit jerky and protein bars to look forward to.


	2. Blazing On the Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this is like half of what i had planned for this chapter, plotwise, but then it ended up being quite a bit longer than I'd originally intended (and took longer to actually finish, tbh) so I split it in half

As it turns out, not riding your horse out into town was a wise decision. If a bit short-sighted, since it means any thought of bringing her back, getting any of the money you'd spent back, is long gone when you finally get around to it.

When you finally come out of the general store, cans of rations and a fair amount of semi-fresh produce tucked hastily into your bag, you find the horse has chewed through her worn and frayed reins with a seemingly intent purpose, with no bit to hamper her, and wandered halfway down the broad, muddy street before you catch up to her. Thankfully, she doesn't give more than a snort when you carefully approach, and lets you take what's left of her reins without fuss, but you grit your teeth all the same when you see how short the uneven strips of leather now are, and how much more difficult it will be, from now on, to keep her from wandering off, even after you either replace the reins or find a way to repair it. Yet another hurdle for you to manage, and yet another reason to simply lead her out of town, feeling the eyes on your back with paranoid chagrin.

There's no use in trying to find a place to stay without this mess handled, and the day is wearing on.

Carefully, you make your way away from town, thankful for the fairly dense woods Farbrook has been built on the edge of, allowing the pair of you to disappear from the town's sight after a few minutes. Once you're down the road a fair bit and there's no prospect of eyes on you, you relax a bit and gather the focus to start piecing together this puzzle.

You stop, leading her off away from the main path a bit before you pull the closer to investigate, huffing in relief when you find that she's only worn her way through one side of the strap, and there's likely some measure of wear and tear at play here as well, the leather frayed and simply old. It shouldn't take too much sewing to get the strap reattached and functional, if for just a bit of extra length. None of that stops her from rechewing through it, of course, but it's a solution.

With a huff, and giving her a playful pat on the meaty base of her neck, you decide to press on a bit, hoping to find somewhere convenient to sit and deal with this before moving on, and the horse tosses her head in response, falling into place behind you, as you wander further down the trail.

The dense forest sprawled before you is notably old, thick with decades-old pine trees and younger aspen and the occasional burst of white fluff from a low-growing cottonwood, luring you back into the tranquil wonder that had consumed you earlier, before Arthur and the whirlwind of draining, if necessary, tasks that followed, and you give a sigh, eyes only keeping occasional watch on the path before you, focus more intent on the treeline standing enticingly down a short hill, the densely packed thicket of trees that have stood for ages, the calls of still-living birds not yet lost to time.

Before too long, the pair of you come to a fork, and a simple little signpost marking the crossroad with handpainted lettering. The forest continues down on your left, the path turning down and finally winding into the woodland proper, while the right turns to dense grassland and the occasional spatter of shade under some low sprawling hawthorn, the chunky wedge of rocky hill between providing a nice enough spot for you to stop and fix her reins.

The horse is nervous, at first, when you lead her off at the side of the road, but when you don't crowd at her, instead removing the reins entirely so you can repair them, she gives a huffing, shaking her head and neck and sets to grazing, flipping her tail in disinterest when you call for her. Absently, you worry about her wandering, but she's already proven herself clever enough to get out of whatever you could keep her still with, and you don't care for the idea of trying to keep your needle steady and not stabbing yourself, while she's pulling at you, trying to get to whatever grass looks tastiest.

As it turns out, when you dig through your bag for the needle and thread you know are tucked in there, somewhere, you find instead a foot and a half long length of leather strapping already there, albeit intended for something more urgent, surely. Still, it makes for a convenient enough replacement, and you set to work replacing the worn leather, noting the thick, reinforced way the old strap is sewn into place as you're slicing through the stitching. Then, once you've memorized the pattern, you do your best to replicate it, polyester, elastic, and cotton hopefully proving a strong enough binding to counteract how long it's been since you sewed more than a patch, if that.

A stagecoach passes by you, two big black horses pulling the heavy-seeming body, shiny with gleaming steel and fresh black paint, with two burly men, rifles clear across their laps at the reins, who give you a Look as they pass. You flinch in response, fighting the impulse to get up and guard your horse, despite the fact that their intent is most definitely not on trying to steal your ill-trained horse. It isn't until the intimidating mass speeds out of sight down into the forest, a third heavily-armed man hanging on the back that you realize what's just passed you by. An armored stagecoach, carrying some sort of precious cargo. No wonder you'd gotten such a sharp look, stopping to gawk as you had.

With a frown you force your gaze back down on your work, focused, and after a spell find yourself lost in the routine of it, only looking up occasionally to assure that she hasn't wandered too far, and before you know it, a couple of hours have passed, and you have a decent-looking set of reins, perhaps a bit longer than they'd been before, dark brown finish contrasting with the original's more worn tan. Or, it feels like it's been a few hours, the light fading imperceptibly, and the sun falling noticeably in the sky. With a grunt you get to your feet, ushering the horse over with a hushed call, eager to really get going. You don't want this day to be a total waste, after all, and exhaustion is already dragging your movements.

The horse has drifted off to the right, drawn to a thick patch of clovers, not as dried out as the rest of the grasses, and you don't bother to disturb her from it for a bit. Just move slowly around her, one hand on her flank before moving to her rear, setting the heavy bag back on her and strapping it into place with discarded strips of leather that will hopefully hold better than nothing. Then you move back in front, giving her a low, soft coo, reins in hand.

"Here, sweetheart..." You hum, disliking the way she looks at you, pupils shrinking. "This'll be really easy, I promise...."

There's something worrying about the way she regards you, ears flicking back and twitching this way and that. nostrils flaring, and it makes you hesitate. 

Still, you decide to move closer, one hand gentle on her neck as you lift the reins up to slide them back on, and when she sees the tangled mess of leather and steel, blinders forming a mess in the shape, something seems to snap. The horse snorts, shaking her head and bounding away from you, giving something of a squeal when you try to follow. She shakes her head again, tail lashing back and forth behind her, padding at the ground with anxious energy.

"Come on, you can do this," You soothe, wanting to be slow and reassuring, but knowing you're going to have to get this over with, and soon; and it's not like it's anything that she  _ should _ be afraid of, reasonably. "It's the same thing you had on before, just a little fixed up. It's fine, honey..."

When you come closer this time, she tosses her head, trotting away a bit, back towards the road. To the dense, dark threat of forest, where she can, potentially lose you entirely.

With the entirety of your supplies, your research, and only way to communicate with your back up, perched tidily on her back.

"Okay, wait," You gasp, panic rushing to take hold. "H-Hang on here, let me just-" You move closer, not wanting to lose her, harness falling by the reins in your hand, and the horse spooks.

With a high, sharp cry, she rears up on her hind legs and then crashes back down, bounding down the winding trail into the forest, faster than you can hope to follow.

Terrific.

You're racing off after her before you can think, stumbling on suddenly-uncoordinated feet and struggling to move fast enough. Just trying to keep her in sight, thankful that she seems to be sticking to the path. For now.

Before you can trip, or lose your breath and lose sight of her entirely, she's caught off-guard by a loud crash in the not-too-distant distance. Gunfire, and desperate yelling. A horse screams, and she cries out in response. Turns, desperate to escape the danger, only to find you still barreling toward her, a single thought in mind.

Something in your expression must terrify the poor thing, despite the fact that she's more than twice your size, despite the fact that she easily outpaces you, and she bolts again, curving off and instead of rushing past you turning in a tight arc and nearly disappearing into the forest. Shit.

The sounds of the shootout reach you again, shouting and gunfire, and you give only a brief pause before you bolt after her, a little embarrassed for the way you're already huffing for breath. You'd trained for a few weeks before this, not wanting to be completely unprepared, but the rough cover and the desperate pace leave you struggling to keep up, and you can't help but feel self-conscious.

For some inexplicable reason, she doesn't give the gunfire as wide a berth as you'd think she would, given the yelling and the clearly distressed horses that have grown disturbingly quiet, and instead curves back around to where you think the fighting would have been. Just edges back onto the road just in time to intersect the struggle, as it turns out.

You slow in your tracks when the sight of the hits you. Both of you do, the horse seemingly startled into momentary stillness by a small fire that has overtaken the road; likely man-made given the pile of thick, hand-snapped branches under its base, the undergrowth largely fresh and young, and unlikely to spark a wildfire, provided it's rained recently. You'd take advantage of this opportunity, easing up to her, and slowly but firmly taking hold of one of the straps on her saddle, if for nothing else to hold onto, but the harrowing sight captivates you too, bringing you to a halt and making the breath in your chest go short, even as you recover from your mad dash to catch up with the horse. There's a vague notion to do something about the fire, put it out and save the corpses to, at the very least, be able to bury them, but you can't bring yourself. Wildfires, as this may be, are a forest's natural defense, after all, even if this one doesn't exactly seem natural. Your mission is to record, observe, and change as little as possible. If this fire is supposed to burn, here and now, it's supposed to burn.

Highlighted by the faint light of flame behind it, the big, impenetrable stagecoach you'd seen earlier, that had barrelled past you and left you behind in awe, lays on its side, seeming for all the world like an enormous child's toy for it's unfamiliarity to you, the small, unremarkable metal box you hadn't noticed on the back is ripped open and whatever cargo it had been carried off long ago. Or well, maybe the robbers are in the process of looting the thing? There's a repeated thumping sound coming from within, but you're not brave enough to really look. Not yet.

One of the horses lies dead on the ground.

Its stomach is terribly still, blood still seeping out of the bullet wounds in its side. It's dead, a corpse lying right there on the ground. You shiver and stumble closer on some grim instinct, and only then do you really see the man lying underneath it.

The man, the man you'd seen not long ago, racing past you, warm and  _ alive _ , is lying there, half pinned under the horse. His legs are trapped underneath it, one arm still braced against its side, as if he could pry himself out from under it. His shotgun is held firmly in the other, uselessly pointed out towards a threat no longer present, and the blood pooling under him is seeping through his dark jacket, bullet wound glistening in his chest. His eyes are open, face a terrified facade.

Your thoughts feel oddly distant, head going fuzzy, and you look away quickly. Can't keep looking at that awful sight, and something in your stomach twists when you see the crimson-splattered boot leading  _ under _ the upturned stagecoach, some nauseating twist on Frank Baum's fairytale.

You need to go. This is too much, this is  _ horrifying _ . You need to turn back around, to get  _ out _ of here.

There's movement from the stagecoach. Someone's still in there.

The fire is small, not that likely to shift all the way over here, but with the breeze in the air, the weight of the scene before you, you're not certain it won't. 

Well, first things first. You turn, woodenly, back to the horse, carefully approaching her with hands lowered and gaze low. She's stopped running for now, shivering and not backing off when you approach, and you carefully slide into view, low and nonthreatening. The reins are momentarily tucked in a back pocket, hidden from view, and unable to scare her. You hold one hand out, gently and slowly, for her to smell, on instinct.

"It's just me..." You soothe, soft and delicate. "No need to be afraid baby, you remember me from earlier..."

The horse snorts, suspicious nonetheless, but lets you shift closer, a step at a time. Doesn't mind, when you reach out and smooth one hand along her neck, running fingers across the edge of her mane.

"We got a little mixed up there, but I promise, I'm not trying to hurt you..." You hum, moving closer and then, with one smooth motion, pull the mess of leather from your pocket, holding it out in one limp hand for her to smell.

She shifts, uncomfortable, but when you hold still and don't push any closer, she calms again. It occurs to you, belatedly, that you should be offering her some sort of treat, reward her for being calm like this, but all the treats are in the bag on her back and there's no way to get to them without risking startling her again. In any case, when you lift the wider end of the harness to show her, she doesn't give more than a snort, staying put for now. Doesn't struggle when you, slowly, slide the whole thing onto her head again, careful to maneuver the blinders where they won't get in front of her eyes.

Once the horse has her reins back on, and you feel a bit antsy for the time it'd taken, you lead her a good ways away from the low-burning fire, where you can wrap the reins around the stubby, snapped branch of a tree, keeping her from wandering off or getting too close to the danger, and turn your attention back to the issue at hand. Whatever poor soul is trapped in the stagecoach.

You edge back to the wreck, eyes pulled carefully from the corpses littered on the ground, and your stomach doesn't turn quite as badly this time, which is progress at least. There's another body, one you hadn't really noticed earlier, slumped over the side of the upturned stagecoach. He's lying on his front, rifle still clutched firmly in-hand, and the number of bullet holes riddling his back, the way he's still half-braced against the stagecoach, tells you something about the way he'd died; maybe he'd been trying to get to whoever's in there. Maybe he'd been trying to get them out. Morbidly, the body shifts in place as whoever's inside shoves up, trying to get out. 

You gulp, forcing yourself to move closer and at least see if you can do something. Find yourself trembling, as you grow near.

"Jeezus Davey..." A deep voice groans out from the stagecoach, muffled through the wood and breaking as he continues shoving against what you belatedly realize must be the door, and causing the whole thing to shake and pitch. You can hear him struggling from within, grunting and gathering his strength for another push, and you can't help but wince in response. "You get'm off the damn door already!?"

"H-Hang on!" You call back, in response to his muffled cursing. "L-Let me figure this out..."

You move forward, but the corpse's heavy body is crumpled carefully over the door, almost intentionally so. The only way to get him out is to  _ grab _ it. Pull it out of the way, so he can get out before he suffocates, or worse.

_ 'You don't have to do this, _ ' something in the back of your head protests. ' _ You can just leave, this doesn't have to  _ '

He gives another push, thumping against the body with a more exaggerated thump, and then going quiet, as he reels. Gathers his strength to desperately try again.

There's no real progress to be made, like this, but it's not like he has another option.

Steeling yourself, you move. Grit your teeth, and come to stand just in front of the body, close enough to smell the barely dried blood. Try to brace yourself, reaching for it with trembling hands.

There are bullet-holes in the door of the stagecoach. splintering the polished finish of the wood, exit holes found in the unprotected body of the man in front of you; one of them at any rate. The body lying sprawled on top is mercifully whole enough to not feel really  _ gone _ , seeping blood and still fresh enough rigor mortis hasn't set in. You force yourself to ignore how still it is, the blood smearing the dark paint and sitting tacky on its wool coat. Instead, you narrow in on the door underneath, and the man that needs your help. 

Okay. One deep, grounding breath (though you quickly regret it for the stale, largely imagined, scent of  _ rot _ you get in the process), and then you force yourself to move.

With trembling breath, you move forward. Grab the corpse by its arm, trying to roll it away, onto the ground. The body is still warm yet, still pliable to your movements; it's been dead less than an hour, easily. You shut your eyes, breath coming fast and hard, and just grab thick handfuls of the stiff fine woolen coat. Pull, grunting with the effort.

Beneath you, the man seems to be taking a short break, bracing back before he heaves up again, complaints having grown silent.

Of course, absorbed in your grim task, you don't really realize what all that means until it's too late. Until you're in motion, shoving the heavy body away, and the man, the living man, inside the stagecoach pushes up, shoving through the bullet-riddled door at last.

Crashing against it, really, with the unexpected lack of resistance, and doesn't seem to be able to stop himself.

He catches something, bone thunking sharply on metal, on the sharp edge of the doorframe, and then slumps back down, a thick spurt of blood all you can get a clear image of.

He's quiet, after that.

Against the vague thought in the back of your head that something isn't right, you shoot forward, quick to let go of the dead man's heavy weight. Lift yourself up onto the side of the stagecoach, heart in your throat.

The blood flowing freely from the fresh cut on his jaw is your immediate concern, but you quickly realize that he's simply lying there, unmoving. A cold spike of fear shoots down your spine, but then you catch that he's still breathing. Still alive, thank goodness. From the angle he's laying, you're fairly certain that he's hit his head on what looks like a lantern stuck to the wall, but there's not really a way for you to tell what's going on except to get closer. Before you hop in, you look the man over one more time, scouring for any other injuries, the dull shape of the revolver at his waist catching your eye, and only then do you realize.

Oh.

Arthur lets out a low groan when your boots hit the other stagecoach door. Glass crunches under your heel, and you wince, but don't bother to investigate. You need to look him over more carefully, make sure he's not going to bleed to death. That his neck isn't broken, that he isn't concussed. A mental list runs through the back of your head, careful and six months of research and drills coming to fruition.

Carefully, not wanting to jostle him in case his vertebrae is damaged but spinal cord still intact, you crouch down to a squat and then after a moment's hesitation, you put both hands on the back of his neck, reaching around to feel the back.

His eyes shoot open at that, breath stopping in shock, and there's a click of his hands finding the revolver, but you ignore it. Close your eyes, carefully walking your fingers up to his hairline. Pressing gently (but firmly), you can feel the shape of his vertebrae, and move slowly down the spinal cord. The voice of your instructor plays faintly in your head, and you act on instinct, your fingers moving down, feeling for any swelling. Any irregularity, vertebrae knocked out of position by the impact. Nothing, thank goodness.

"Does it hurt?" You ask, before you've quite finished. Arthur gives a choked sound, and when you look his eyes are dark. He's giving you a dazed, open look, as if he can't understand what you've asked. As if trying to figure out why you're just standing there, why you haven't hurt him yet.

"I..." He manages, as you pull away, not yet standing up. "What?" He grunts, bringing one gloved hand to the still oozing wound on his chin, but you stop him before he can touch it. The cut doesn't look too deep, but you have no idea what could be on his gloves, ready to infect it.

"You hit your head." You respond thickly, still holding onto his gloved hand, still with one of yours on the back of his neck. "Pretty hard. Does your, uh, does your neck hurt? No, don't try to-"

As you ask the question, he shifts, as if reminded of the fall. Rolls his head, and all manner of horrible scenarios flash through your head, unprotected spinal cord severing itself, fractured spinal cord fully breaking, but mercifully nothing really happens. He just groans, and rubs his neck with the hand he pulls back from you, eyes still fixed on somewhere below yours.

"Nah, s'fine," He grunts. Pauses a moment, and then pushes himself upright a bit, though you find yourself pushed far too close as a result, hands braced on the wood beneath him. Almost as soon as he does so, he groans, one hand coming to drape over his eyes, hissing in pain. "Shiit..."

You wince at that, scooting back so he can have space, but staying close enough to be able to help. Frown, running through symptoms in your head again. "What's wrong? I, uhm..."

He shakes his head, giving another sharp whine of discomfort immediately afterward. Grunts, fingers threading through his a moment, before moving to press on his temple. "S'nothing, I just.... My head..."

You offer a sympathetic hum at that, and back off. Not exactly a good sign on the concussion front, but he's been relatively alright so far. "Yeah, that makes sense. Is it, uhm, is it the light, or the movement? I can..."

You're cut off when Arthur pushes himself forward again, pulling himself up off the ground for a scant second before collapsing back with a groan, reeling back like he's been struck.

"Feel like everythin's spinnin'..." He groans, and you feel your heart sink just a bit. Almost certainly a concussion, then.

"Okay, that's not good." You manage, and he shoots you a sharp look. "Why don't you, uh, stay here a moment, and I'll get my supplies?" He gives a dismissive grunt, and you quickly add, watching his blood continue to drip onto his now-thoroughly stained work shirt, "a-at least I can do something about that cut, if you'll let me..."

He doesn't give more than a sigh in response, slumping back against the wall, so you take that as a yes. Carefully pull yourself out of the stagecoach, hit almost immediately with the grisly scene around you. Your horse, thankfully where you left her tied to the tree, lifts her head momentarily to scan before her head drops again. That's progress, hopefully.

Gingerly, you lower your feet on the ground again, and then make your way over to her, getting an apple from the bag to reward her for being patient, before digging out the tools you'll need to address his wound. Needle and thread, and rubbing alcohol to sanitize them. Some hydrogen peroxide to flush the wound, although you can't imagine he'll hold still for it. Gauze, and first-aid tape to cover the whole thing and help it heal.

When you hop back down into the tipped over stagecoach, Arthur is relatively the same as he was when you left him. Still sitting there, head cradled in one hand, and gives you an indecipherable look, shifting so you're in view.

"Why're you doin' this?" He grunts, and you just hum in response, laying out your equipment on a clean strip of cloth in front of you, where you'll be able to get to them. "I-I mean, where'd you even..."

The question is left open, but you don't need anything else to fill in the gaps. You just give a nod while thinking over your answer, moving closer and taking the small tin of cotton balls and larger bottle of hydrogen peroxide in hand. 

"I saw the stagecoach go by, on the road." You eventually come up with, and he gives you a conflicted look but doesn't speak. Lets you wipe as much of the excess blood away from the cut on his chin, frowning at the irregular split. "And my horse, uh- Well, I was coming through this way, and I saw the whole mess. I couldn't just... Leave someone to suffocate, o-or burn to death, in all this."

He scoffs at that, but doesn't still say anything. Has a dark, conflicted look that all but confirms your suspicion that he's the reason the stagecoach is here, on its side, instead of safe at its destination with all the men alive, but surprisingly, nothing about how you feel changes. Knowing that he put himself in this situation, that the bodies strewn on the ground outside like broken dolls are his doing doesn't change your decision. Doesn't make you want to stop helping him.

"This is, uh, going to sting really bad, by the way," You warn, as you wet one cotton ball with the hydrogen peroxide. 

Arthur scoffs, muttering something about "ain't a damn kid," but he doesn't get to protest too much because as soon as you press the wet cotton ball to his cut the man cuts himself off with a shout, shooting back away from your touch on instinct. He gives you an almost dirty look, but you don't budge. 

"Come on, you don't want that getting infected, do you?" You tease, gesturing for him to come back over, instead of chasing. "I'd hate to ruin that '' look you've got going."

The way your tone emphasizes the flirty nature of the comment doesn't really hit until you catch the quick look that flashes across his face, but you keep your expression vague as if it's nothing. 

It's not like you haven't noticed how touchy he's been towards you, haven't realized how gorgeous the man is, but you're not really in a position to test anything right now. Not with the situation you're in, and not with the weight of your mission. Not to mention the fact that he's a man, and you, as far as you present yourself and as far as he knows, are as well. It's the late 1800s, and you're far from ignorant about what could happen if you get found out as queer all the way out here.

Arthur, for his part, steels his expression pretty quickly, and just goes lax, moving back over towards you. Lets you reach for him again, giving just a flicker of apprehension. Has a warning look in his eyes, jaw set.

He winces, when you press the cotton ball back to his cut, but doesn't protest. At least, he doesn't until you finish with the first and, still seeing pink in the cotton, grab another.

"C'mon, you really gotta do all that again?" He scowls, cradling his chin with one hand absently.

Dousing the second cotton ball with an almost gratuitous amount of hydrogen peroxide, you look up at him momentarily, and can't help but chuckle. The man has one arm braced before him protectively, as if you're going to  _ hurt _ him with a little fluff of cotton. "Yeah, but we're almost done," You soothe, reaching out slowly like you're dealing with a wounded animal. "And if it helps, I don't think I'm actually going to need to stitch it, it looks a lot smaller than I first thought..."

He rolls his eyes at that, but after a moment of hesitation, relinquishes. Lets you approach, giving an exaggerated wince when you press the cotton to his chin. You roll your eyes in response, chuckling, and carefully patting at the wound until the cotton comes back white and clean of blood.

Without moving your hand from his rough cheek, you turn to get the pad of gauze, tearing a patch from it and fitting it over the entire area.

"Hold still, alright?" You hum, not really looking for an answer, though he gives a grunt in response, letting you roll the thick medical tape over the edges of the gauze, trying to cover as much as you can. 

When you pull back, your focus is entirely fixed on his wide-set jaw, carefully examining your work and trying to find something you've missed

Once you're sure the bandage won't come off with at least the first bit of movement, you give him a nod, and then back off, collecting your tools.

"You're, uh," He eventually manages, as you carefully tuck the unused bits of cotton and gauze into their little box, so they don't get lost, "You're that fella I met out by that field, aren't ya? I didn't recognize ya at first, but..."

You nod in response. Get to your feet with a grunt, and then offer your hand to him. "Uh, yeah. Thanks for that again, by the way," You watch as Arthur groans up to his feet, one hand braced against what was the ceiling. "For the lift. There's a lot of worse people that couldv'e found me out there instead."

He gives a dismissive grunt, whatever he wants to shoot back cut off by a groan and a hand pressed over his eyes.

Your tone is sympathetic, but you don't try to help, yet. "Still dizzy?"

He doesn't give more than a grunt in response, but you don't need to be told to know.

You also don't need to be reminded that you're sitting in a stage-coach that was headed  _ somewhere _ , and had people waiting for it. People who will start to notice it's delay, at some point.

"Alright, um, what if..." You frown, struggling for a moment to grapple his need for personal space with your mounting sense of urgency, before reaching for him. "Here, let me help you get steady..."

Arthur rolls his eyes at your offer, but doesn't refuse when you crouch down again and gesture for him to put his arm over your shoulder. He gets to his feet without much difficulty, but leans on you a little and stays there, steadied by your presence. 

groans, when he's hit with the fading sunlight, shielding his eyes from it with one hand.

Before you can even move, he pulls away, throwing his arms over the side and pulling himself up the former floor of the stagecoach. Grits his teeth and heaves, thumping over the side like a lead weight, while something in your chest goes cold.

He gives a groan, from over the edge, and then you're rushing over to check.

When you slide over the edge, chest tight with anxiety, you find him just hanging there, crouching to keep his center of gravity low and steadying himself with one hand on the stagecoach. Looking over the body you rolled off the stagecoach with a flicker of emotion, before the expression is carefully masked over, and he turns away.

The conflicted feeling that brings is carefully tucked away for now, and you move closer, holding one arm out so he can lean on it. You can't just leave him here like this, after all. Disoriented and unable to regain his balance, it's not like he'd be likely to get far.

"Hey, uh" you offer, watching the way he hesitates at your outstretched arm. "We should, uhm, get going, I think. That wreck is going to start drawing attention, and I'm not sure you, uh, want all of that, in your condition..."

Arthur grunts at that. Opens his mouth to protest, and then cuts himself off with a scowl. "Yeah." He eventually manages. Something about his expression seems almost guilty, jaw tense, eyes downcast. "Yeah, alright then." 

He gives a brief frown, a note of hesitation, and then complies. Overshoots your ability to support him, collapsing against your side with a huff. He's heavier than you'd anticipated, that half-second before he catches himself, and you can't help giving a deep grunt, but you don't let go. Just wrap your arm around his side, feeling him wince in response, and the two of you slowly make your way over to where your horse is tugging at her reins impatiently.

The going is slow, pace halted by the heavy weight hanging off of you, and the way you have to be careful not to move too much, his balance unsteady, but when at last you arrive at the horse you find yourself momentarily thrown off, as he pulls away a bit.

"Oh." He grunts, and you give him a brief pause. Let him hang back a bit, leaning against a young aspen as if he's just lounging, going to untie the horse from her tree, bringing her over so he can climb up, hopefully without too much help; given that you're not sure you could lift him more than an inch, if that. "She's, uh, s'that-"

The question is cut off by a loud, the horse startled by something, or maybe catching some scent from all the dead bodies behind the two of you, and pulls at the lead a little bit, rearing up on her hindlegs, ears flicked back.

You grit your teeth, keeping a tight hold on her reins, not wanting a repeat of earlier, and reach out to gently stroke her nose on instinct. Soothing, comforting. Arthur stumbles back, giving a murmured curse, one hand up to something at his hip on instinct.

"Heey..." You hum, trying to keep your breath even. She huffs, tossing her head even as she stills somewhat. "You're okay, sweetheart, it's just us...."

The horse snorts at that, but doesn't protest. Tosses her head, hooves tapping at the ground, but not pulling anymore. Stills after you spend a few more minutes soothing her, huffing and tossing her head one more time. But calms well enough.

You look to Arthur, who's shrunk back at her cry. Giving the horse an almost frightened look, one arm thrown out protectively in front of himself.

"See you do have yerself a horse af'er all." He chuckles, but the words are tense on his lips, and you just hum nervously in response. Gently urge her to come closer, reins tight in one hand, the other gentle on her neck, watching the way she slowly approaches, shivering. "S'pose I understand how a timid little thing like that got away from you, tho."

Before you can move, try to figure out if he can get up on his own with his concussion, he interrupts you with a click of his tongue. His face lights up with a grin, and he stands back upright, only wavering a bit.

"Oh, right," He huffs, shaking his head as if all this is some joke. "She probly got spooked by all the guns..."

You don't get a chance to ask, to explain that your horse was startled, a little, by the gunfire, but that was a while ago, and you doubt it's still scaring her, before he lifts one hand to his mouth and lets out a shrill, piercing whistle. Sharp and quick, like he's calling a dog, and you have to brace yourself again because the horse gets antsy all over again at the sound.

Despite that, Arthur doesn't seem all that concerned, leaning back against the slender alder. Gives you a smooth look, when you manage to glance over, softly petting the horse's nose to calm her down.

"Give'r a minute..." He hums, grinning to himself, and you don't really have time to wonder what he could mean for more than a few minutes before the animal comes into view.

The horse- his horse, you recognize the way her mane is tied up into neat plaits, comes trotting into view, tossing her head with a snort.

"Boadicea!" He practically coos, as she trots up, offering him a nicker. "There you are, girl. Where'd you get off ta?"

Boadicea seems to regard him with a moment of playful coldness, giving him a disinterested huff and trotting up to stand just out of his reach, earning a snort from the man. He drags himself closer, chiding her in a soft tone you can't make out, an overly fond expression taking his face, and then looks to you again, and it crosses your mind that he might be a bit off from the concussion.

"'Preciate all the help, fella," Arthur hums, giving her an affectionate pat as he braces one hand on the far side of her saddle, "But I think we can get it from here. Least-"

Whatever he'd meant to say is cut off when his flashy attempt to swing up onto Boadicea's back overbalances and has him tumbling back onto the dirt with a groan.

It's an objectively comical sight, but your heart seems to stop when he slips.

With a squawk of alarm, you're thrown into motion, rushing over to him and already running the list of what could go wrong in your head. The reins formerly in your hand are forgotten, and all pretense of the mission, your bag and the essentials it contains, abandoned for the moment.

When you reach him, Boadicea mercifully stepping out of the way, you find him just sitting there. Lying on his back, staring up at the cloud-filled sky, an almost empty expression on his face. You can't help but fear the worse.

"Shit!" You huff, already on your knees, though not reaching for him just yet, "Are you okay? Did-"

You're cut off by a sharp wheeze of laughter. An unsteady shake of his head, and then Arthur is looking up at you, with something close to chagrin.

"Fine," He croaks out, though you don't quite believe it. "M'fine. Not sure what happened there, but nothin's hurt..."

You grunt in response. Refrain from testing him, this time, and just trust that he's not too hurt. Help him sit up, and give a frown at the wince he makes. "Pretty sure you have a concussion, so you should probably try to be careful." He gives you an odd look at the word, which is pretty expected, but you don't bother explaining. "You really need to lie down and rest for a bit. Maybe take a few days to recover, if you can."

He gives a scoff at that, so you push a bit. Help him back to the horse, even if he doesn't really seem to need it. "You're not going to be of much use otherwise; might even get worse if you don't let yourself recover."

A pause at that. Arthur frowns, one hand on her neck. Looks in your direction, eyes downcast. There are a few seconds where you're worried that he's going to try to vault himself back onto the horse, regardless of how the last attempt had ended. Just a few seconds, however, because he hangs there, motionless. Looks back to the wreck of the stagecoach.

"I... Look, it's not like I can just go hangin' back 'round camp right now..." He sighs. Groans, bringing one hand up to the bridge of his nose. "Not with all that's goin' on right now, not without anythin' to show f'r all this. I-I gotta earn my place..."

You frown at that. 

"Well..." You bite your lip. You don't want to lie to him, tell him it's going to be okay, when you really know nothing about his situation, but at the same time you can't bear to see him putting himself at risk like this, and wish you could do something to help. Maybe it's just you being emotional, or maybe it's the fact that you've already invested so much of your time into seeing him okay. Maybe it's those sad eyes, and the way his posture seems to just fall. "Well, I doubt it's as bad as all that. And you're not... Going to be able to do much for anyone if you end up with a permanent, erm, injury."

He blinks at that. Gives you a quick look. "You really think that could happen? I mean, I just... It don't feel like it was anythin', really." There's a bullish certainty to his tone, almost a hopefulness.

You give a firm nod, feeling strangely determined considering how little you know him. Move to stand beside Boadicea, ready to help him up if he needs it. "I do. You're... Head injuries are very serious, you know. And I mean, you lost consciousness, and that's a really bad sign, even if it was only for a little bit."

He nods at that. Gives a long low groan, one that seems to, at the very least, indicate that he's as worried about this as you are. Doesn't say anything for a moment, looking you over with a scrutinizing expression, and you're reminded of earlier that day when the stable hand had given you the same look.

"I, uh, I don't s'pose I could c'nvince you to c'm with me?" He eventually sheepishly asks, looking at you with something of a coy grin. "Just to help me get back to camp, a'course, I'd be awful grateful..."

"Oh," you blink at the sudden change of pace, struck at once with an interest that you carefully tuck away before it can become trouble. "Of course. Yeah, I guess I don't really have anything left for today, so I could come with, if you wanted."

You offer your hand, waiting again for him to try to get up on the horse, only for Arthur to return the gesture to you instead. Mumble something about not being sure if he can keep her steady, like this, and Boadicea knowing the way already well enough.

It gives you an uncomfortable feeling, to leave your horse to herself, but she's yet to stray or get spooked again in the time the two of you have been standing here, and when you bring up the fact that  _ she _ doesn't know where you're going, Arthur gives a roll of his eyes and goes to dig a lasso out from one of his saddlebags, tossing it to you and gesturing back to her. Instructs with distant care to pull the loose loop over her head and make sure she can't slip out of it, taking the other end and tying it to Boadicea's saddlebag as you do so.

Gives you a smirk more comfortable than the way he's been all but scowling since crawling out of the stagecoach, as you go back to his horse's side.

You want to snark back, but don't have the focus right now. The empty saddle lies before you, the task just as daunting as you'd remembered it.

You move slower this time, aware of the eyes on you and the fact that you're, still, clearly uncomfortable with this. Grab the worn leather of the saddle like it'll help, and then move one foot to the stirrup. With a jerky motion you pull, heaving yourself up onto her back, ignoring the chuckle of amusement Arthur gives, your posture awkward and shaky. Just focus on what you're doing and haul yourself up, into the wide saddle and then settling in, like nothing had happened at all.

He gives you a smirk, but doesn't tease beyond the look. Just heaves himself up with practiced ease, as if it's second nature. You blanch, remembering the way he'd overshot and fallen off earlier, but your instinct to twist around to catch him proves necessary when he steadies himself, the only evidence of his discoordination the way he grits his teeth, bent forward to more tightly control his center of balance.

He takes just a moment to settle, and then his alarm passes, a placid look taking its place.

"A'right, girl, let's get goin'!" He grunts, wrapping one thick arm around your waist as if it's nothing, and you can't fight the way you automatically flinch in response, saying nothing.

Boadicea gives a whinny, throwing her head in a huff, but starts to walk all the same, and before long you fall into the simple rhythm that'd been, thankfully, drilled into your head of tucking your legs inward and keeping her speed under control with heels occasionally pressed to her sides.

The pace is slower than before, but seems to be enough for Arthur, who doesn't say much for the first twenty minutes or so, and presses closer to you a bit as you get a little faster.

"Don't know if you're stayin' nowhere close," Arthur grunts, voice soft like he's leaning away from you for how tentative it is, but you can almost feel his chest, warm against you. "But I don't think Dutch or Hosea'll mind 'f you wanna stay a bit. Long as you don't mind the cookin'..."

You grunt in response, giving no real answer.

It occurs to you, as he jostles behind you and chatters on, like this is nothing, that you don't really have a place in all this. That getting close like this is foolish, and against the rules laid out for you. The one rule, if you're being specific. Don't get attached to anyone, don't let them get close enough to find out more about you than is strictly necessary. Already the long-standing repercussions of your actions are broader than you were allowed to be, in those carefully laid out instructions.

The path you'd been working to, the careful steps that hadn't lead to anywhere concrete starts to fade away, as the two of you head further into the dense woods, and the evening light starts to turn dim. You're going to need a place to stay, after all, if just for the night. Might as well hang around a bit more after that, if you're allowed. Keep an eye on his recovery.

Whatever happens after that is a road you'll cross when you get there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this probably goes without saying, but please don't touch someone if you think they have a broken neck, i have no fucking idea how to determine if someone's vertebrae is actually broken without, like, an mri, which obviously wasn't an option here


	3. We'll go together in flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i _absolutely_ didn't post this chapter to the first fic at first, nosir
> 
> fun fact: this is only half of what got cut out of last chapter （。-＿-。）

Camp, as it turns out, is a carefully concealed hollow in the middle of a densely packed forest of largely pine and ash. There's a dense enough layer of them protecting them from speculatory eyes, and, though you only find this part out until later, edges a steep, but by no means perilous cliff on one side, allowing them a theoretical escape as well as eyes into the sleepy grassland below. Tucked into the trees, the camp is all but imperceptible, and you can’t help but wonder how they found the spot in the first place. It's only the faint sound of voices that gives the encampment’s location away, as the two of you make your way through the wood.

Despite your inexperience, Boadicea continues on, steady and sure, and Arthur is warm at your back. The man is a solid weight behind you, one thick arm slewn around your waist for balance, and you'd worry that he's fallen asleep if not for the half-minded commentary he gives, about the scenery. He'd spent the roughly two hour ride from that overturned stagecoach to here musing aloud about seemingly random thoughts, guiding you where to go now and again, but largely leaving you to your thoughts.

And now, as the sun falls dark and violet behind the sharp treetops, that placid spell comes to a tense end. The anonymous calls of the meadow birds die out abruptly, and the faint sound of hoofs stepping on overturned stones (your own horse sounding faint behind you, but still present enough not to worry) grows all the louder, not to mention the firm bulk of the outlaw behind you, preventing any attempt at escape, even if he's in no state to really try, all converge to make the hairs on the back of your neck raise.

"Who's that!?" A reedy voice breaks you from your uneasiness, and seems to stir Arthur from his daze. The man grunts, pulling himself upright and withdrawing the heavy arm around you. "I know someone's out there...."

A snort from Arthur, who gives the threat no real consideration. "Yeah, 'course you do y’saucebox. Yer brother back yet, or he turn tail’n run off c’mpletely?" He needles, leaning away to snark at the man you only now notice leaning against a slender aspen, the long barrel of a shotgun plain even in the fading light. You wince, feeling him bristle at the jab, and for a moment you worry you’ve been walked right into the waiting jaws of an elaborate trap.

A snort from the other man, though his tone doesn’t quite match the candor his body language gives. "Course he's fine. You gotta problem there, Morgan?" You're afforded a brief glance, the shotgun lazily coming up to point directly at you. 

You freeze, entire body locking up. Your knees press, instinctively, against her flanks and Boadicea startles in response, stopping in her tracks and giving a warning snort.

"Shit Mac, getta hold’a yerself," Arthur hisses, hastily shifting back to a more stable position, and patting Boadicea's side reassuringly. "I really gotta spell out that the fella’s with me?"

A grunt at that, and the gun lowers again, if only after a moment. He retreats, leaning back against the sapling and almost disappearing from view, save for the glint of metal flashing in the dying twilight. "See you ain’t got nothin’ but more trouble from that whole mess..."

A snort at that, and Arthur mutters something unintelligible under his breath. You don't have to look to know that he's conceding some too, can feel him shrinking back behind you. With a gentle press of your heels, the horses start walking again, and Mac is left behind in the shadow, cackling something about dead weight.

"Drunk fool..." Arthur huffs, relaxing again as the two of you come in sight of the rest of the camp. "Don't mind him, s'just messin with ya."

You grunt in response, no words coming to your tongue. You'd felt, earlier, that doing this, that coming here with him was a reasonable choice, and smart in the long run. Now it feels like another foolish impulse decision.

There are nearly ten or so tents sprawled out on the forest floor, most simple lean-tos, or open wooden frames with just canvas keeping out any threat of rain, though one or two seem to be decent little structures. Beyond that, beside the sprawling wagons that look like something downright cartoonish, there are a few work stations set up, out of place looking chairs set by overly worn tables for seating, and the occasional pile of firewood. There are four wagons that you can see, encircling the camp like giant slumbering beasts, each bulky with some sort of cargo. You can see the shadows of horses, tied here and there to posts, or to sturdy tree branches. In the center of it all, framed by a large welcoming campfire, is a well-sized tent that resembles more of a miniature house more than anything you'd think about actually camping with, certainly compared to the rest of the tents. There are roughly three people gathered around the fire, bowl or mug in hand, clustered together, muttering something. You can make out the faint glow of another fire further off, with more shadows gathered around it, and as your gaze wanders, you can see more figures still, lounging in the shabby tents. You weren't certain what you were expecting, going off of Arthur's insistence that he couldn’t go back empty-handed, but this is far more stable than anything you'd imagined. Certainly stable enough to afford him time to recover.

He regards the whole thing with familiar indifference, pulling you from your analysis with a grunt, gesturing to the break in the trees where the other horses are gathered. "Here, bring 'er over there, she won't be too much fuss. Might do your gal good, too, sh'seems t’like Boadicea..."

You grunt in response, and do as directed. Catch the eye of one of the figures at the larger campfire as you ride past, a matronly shadow of scrutiny, and for a moment it feels like she can see _right_ through you. You shiver, and focus on guiding the horse.

It takes just a gentle push and the faintest nudge from your knee to get Boadicea to join the other horses at the clearing, and when she stops still enough, Arthur slides off with a grunt, gracefully as if he hadn't fallen off earlier. As if he didn't get concussed just hours ago, and wasn't dizzy enough to need you to keep him steady, though the way he steadies himself against a nearby sapling is more telling. You carefully climb down in response, very much aware of how awkward you look, but not really able to do much about it. The horse is, thankfully, still and patient while you ease yourself down, and your boots rasp on the parched grass.

"C'mon," He grumbles, voice gravelly, "W'oughta get you squared with Dutch'n Hosea, 'fore they get the wrong idea,"

The pace picks up, leaving you no room to argue, and you say nothing, following close enough to bump into him if he were to stop too suddenly, although you don't push to offer your hand for balance, aware of the self-consciousness that is surely taking hold of him, and the eyes on the pair of you, the daydreaming you'd allowed yourself to indulge in earlier feeling like a particularly foolish hazard.

The two of you walk on in silence, and then he gestures for you to stop at one of the larger tents, and Arthur pauses, shoulders going tense. Turns to you, lips pursed as if to warn you about something, but before he can start to speak, someone calls out for him, and his attention is pulled elsewhere.

"Arthur! There you are son, we were starting to worry!" A reedy, bright voice calls, and something in your stomach turns to ice. It's a familiar voice, one that you recognize almost instantly.

The man that emerges from the tent, giving just a flash of the woman inside, is an older man with sharp, expressive features, shorter than Arthur by a handful of inches, and utterly dwarfed by him, size-wise. The same overly cheery man you'd met in town, that’d been so emphatic about selling you the horse. He gives you a brief glance, but his attention is clearly elsewhere, focusing in on Arthur, who's noticeably relaxed as soon as he came over. The shorter man looks him up and down, but his concern is shrugged off with a nonchalant grunt, and a shrug of his shoulders.

"And I see you've brought a friend. Is this, uh-" He falters, eyes meeting yours, and for the first time today he seems to be caught off-guard. It strikes you that this is a rare occurrence for him, though it takes just a moment for him to get his bearings. "Oh, hello again, sir..."

You nod, not saying anything. Give him an almost wooden smile, reintroducing yourself with distant warmth. There are alarm bells going off in your head, faintly, the 'coincidence' of both of the men you'd run into today knowing each other too great.

Alarm bells that grow a bit more distant, when Arthur gives a frown at the man's tone. Perks up a little, as if growing on edge as well. "You, uh, you two know each other?"

"Yes, we had a bit of a meet-up in town, just this afternoon, in fact." The man explains, giving you a bright smile, expression just a bit sharp. "I have to admit, I wasn't anticipating seeing you again _quite_ so soon." There's something strained in his voice, a note of tension you can't quite place.

Arthur grunts, shuffling his foot in the grass. "S'pose-" He starts, but the thought is left unfinished, and neither make a move to bring it back up. He grows silent, giving the older man another brief look, before you can decipher it...

"Yes, well." The man nods, and something in his demeanor seems to still . "I don't believe I properly introduced myself did I? You can call me Hosea, friend." Arthur is given a half-second glance, and when he seems to get the response he'd wanted, a bit of tension in Hosea's shoulders vanishes. "Now, what sort of business has this big lug dragged you into?"

Arthur snorts at that, rolling his eyes and allowing you to hang back, responding for you. "Picked 'im up on the road back after- well, uh," A pause, and you’re given a quick gesture. Pretend not to notice, well aware that you're likely the only person here unarmed. "Helped me out with the stagecoach af’r Davey up an’ ran, an' I figured least we could do was give him s’mewhere to sleep. Since he, uh, din’t get much else f’r his trouble."

A thoughtful sound at that. Hosea regards you for a brief moment, and you freeze, suddenly aware of the calculating scrutiny, the apprehension still at your companion’s shoulders, like a child waiting to see if he can keep a pet.

"Well! That sounds like a fine plan," He crows, cutting through your apprehension and giving a warm grin. Reaches to clap a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. "Get yourself something to eat too, son, you look like you could use it."

A huff, and Arthur seems to relax. His grim expression remains largely unchanged, but relief is clear from the way he sighs. "Sure, sure. Gotta go ov’r it with Dutch, but then I’ll get right on that."

A hum, and Hosea’s eyebrows raise. "Mn. You know, I-" He's interrupted by a soft question from whoever he'd been talking to in the tent, a low, exhausted voice, and he sighs. "Well, I won’t keep you."

At the sound of the voice, Arthur'd tensed again, stress clear in his shoulders, but he doesn't speak up. Doesn't protest, turning to you with a barely audible groan.

"C'mon then," He huffs, and you edge out of his way, "Dutch probly won't be much trouble, but we gotta talk t’him b’fore you can get settled. Him bein’ in charge ‘n all."

You nod, and before you know it you're trailing behind him, as he heads back to the middle of the camp, where that bigger, more imposing tent waits.

You find yourself uncomfortably aware of your state, as the two of you approach it, the sweat sticking to your arms, the hairs coming loose and sticking out haphazardly. The mud spattered on your pants, and the complete lack of any sort of weapon at your disposal, save perhaps for a forgotten pen in some pocket.

You keep your gaze down, ignoring the urge to smooth out your outfit, as the pair of you come to stop in front of the tent, and wait for him to make a move. There's a muffled voice from inside, clearly not something meant to be overheard, from the affectionate tone, and the distinct sound of opera music, grainy and faint.

You wait a moment. Arthur hesitates, not exactly keen himself.

"Dutch?" He calls, one hand tapping at the wooden frame of the tent, absently. "Dutch I got somethin' I gotta talk t'you about..."

A silence from inside the tent. The faint music comes to a halt, and the murmurs stop. You flinch, as the drawn flaps are pushed back, an imposing figure emerging.

The man that emerges from the tent is at once imposing and almost comical. Picturesque, with his figure back-lit, showing little but his distasteful scowl. And yet the effect seems a little overexaggerated, quite a bit shorter than you'd imagine, given how nervous Arthur is, but the larger man shrinks back all the same.

"Arthur." The man, Dutch, grunts, displeasure plain. "I see you made it back, finally."

"No thanks to Davey," Arthur huffs, shifting to away, a step, from the now largely-abandoned campfire. "Though I, uh, I picked up somethin' on my way back..."

A nod. His eyes flick to you, momentarily, before returning to Arthur. Dutch’s mouth is fixed in a firm scowl. "No, Davey went and got himself picked up by the law, instead. MacGuire and Williamson are riding out to Dearcreek right now- we can only _pray_ they make it to him in time." He growls, and Arthur seems to shrink in chagrin. "And who is this you’ve dragged in?"

Almost a wince at that. You wince, preparing for all of this to have been a big waste of time, and Arthur takes a moment to steel himself.

"Well, uh, not s'much really, Dutch but," he starts, and there's something sharp in the other man's stare. "Fella sa- uh, got me outta a really tight spot there." He mumbles, one hand coming to his chin, picking at the thick bandage there, nervous. "Figure the least we could do was get him a safe place to sleep, just for the night."

The man huffs in response. Takes a long pull of his cigar and then moves on from his analyzing Arthur. Turns to regard you with an inscrutable expression, and for a moment you wonder just how difficult it will be, to find somewhere relatively safe to sleep, for tonight.

Then, just as jarringly as before, makes his decision and breaks the facade. Gives a bark of laughter, and the tension bleeds out of Arthur in response. "Oh is that what’s got you all worked up? Son, I don’t see a problem with sharing space with someone who needs help, you know that." Dutch gives the taller man a light shove, and you wonder, for a moment, if this whole encounter isn’t the ordeal it’d seemed; it’s not unlikely that a concussion would heighten otherwise dull tensions, and you don’t have much to gauge your own expectations with except Arthur’s reactions. "Unless you think this might be longer than a night or two..."

A snort at that, and Arthur ducks his head again, wincing when the motion upsets his balance again. Steadies himself, shaking off the concern Dutch offers with a hand wave.

"S'nothing, I-" He starts, and then seems to catch himself. "'M fine. He, uh, patched me all up, says I just need s’m rest..."

He gestures to you again, and you shake off the implicit commendation. Find those eyes turn to you again, and resist the urge to duck behind Arthur in recoil. There's something frightening about Dutch's scrutiny, optimistic but almost hungry.

"I see!" He eventually grins, after a moment of contemplation. "Well that makes your wanting him to stay here all the more understandable, doesn’t it? Are you, ah, staying in town, Mr...?"

You introduce yourself again, and find yourself nearly grinning. Take the handshake he offers, relaxing a bit as the tension in the air fades. As the threat of getting sent on your way, or worse, with less than an hour or so of minimal light to guide you, fades away, leaving you mostly with vague confusion. And exhaustion, as the day's tasks take their toll.

"No, not really," you fight the urge to shrug, skirting around the question with awkward grace. "I just, er, arrived in the area, and uhm..."

Your hasty explanation is cut off by a dismissive note, and you don’t bother trying to make anything else up. "Oh it's alright, friend, we're no strangers to hard times here. You’re welcome to stay if you need it. Long as you need to, as long as you’re not afraid of a little work...”

A hum at that, but you don't consider the offer. The brief moment you get to even hear it is cut off by a loud voice from the other campfire. You can hear someone calling, and when you glance over you see that Hosea has taken a seat with another figure, and is gesturing for the two of you, or for Arthur at least.

A huff, and the man glowers like he’d wanted to add more, though Dutch’s expression smooths almost immediately. "In any case, Arthur, why don't you go and show our friend here where he can set himself up?" He beams, as if the whole thing had been his idea in the first place. "We can discuss anything more in the morning."

Arthur nods. Hesitates, but you can see the deference kicking in again. Exhaustion, apprehension, make his decision for him, and he folds. "Right. Yeah, alright." He shrugs, gesturing for you and striding off. "C'mon, lessee what Hosea wants fr’m us...."

A grunt, and Dutch allows the two of you to leave without comment. Retreats back into the tent as you follow Arthur's lead, and after a moment the soft opera music starts back up. You shake your head, and hurry after the man.

  
  


At the other campfire, where there are thankfully no eyes watching you (that you can see), you find Hosea and an older woman, stray hairs escaping from her loose bun sporadically, sitting around the fire, bowls of something in hand. He brightens when he sees Arthur, giving you a short nod.

"Well, is he staying after all, then?" The older man teases, moving over and ushering Arthur to sit next to him. You move to follow, taking the seat opposite the trio. "Or are we taking your friend here back?"

His question is met with a snort, but Arthur's response is cut off by the hiss of alarm the woman beside him gives. She catches sight of the bandage on his chin when he accepts the bowl of stew Hosea offers and gives a frown, grabbing him by the chin so she can look at it better.

"What is- What’s happened here, Mister Morgan?" She fusses, only to have him pull himself away from her before she can get a good look.

"I'm fine, s'nothin'" He huffs, shrugging his shoulder as if the whole ordeal had been nothing major, "Had a little, ah, problem with gettin’ outta th’stagecoach, but the fella here got m'out."

"I see," Hosea frowns, and suddenly you're aware of the way he regards Arthur, the concern plain in his furrowed brow.

Your mouth opens before you can . "I’m pretty sure the cut on his chin is superficial, it should be fine in a few days. The real concern is the concussion he has." Hoping your words are a reassurance, you turn to him to add, "I should really check your pupils, by the way, so we can really see how you’re doing."

A pause at that. Arthur gives you a strained grin, while the other two blanch. He gives you a _look_ , and you shrink in your seat again. 

"Concussion?" Hosea frowns at that, seemingly unaware to Arthur’s disdain. "Is that a, well I can’t admit to having much medical knowledge, is that _that_ bad?"

"Well," Arthur cuts in, before you get a chance to speak. "It weren't nothin’ _trau_ matic, I just got a little ahead’a myself and climbed in the stagecoach b'fore Davey blew the wheels, an' it flipped on it’s side. Wouldn'ta gotten m’self out fore the law showed up if he hadn't come along an' helped me outta there."

A frown at that, but you drag your eyes towards the fire, and don't argue. Just nod, and help him reassure the older pair. "He should be fine, I think. Just needs to be careful in the future. And get some rest for now."

Another round of concerned questions, and then you're left to the bowl of stew you’d been handed, while you were distracted. It's quite plain, but not nearly as bad as you'd been anticipating, under-seasoned and needing some form of starch, but the texture of real meat, broth made from scratch, and fresh vegetables, is refreshing compared to the prepackaged fare you’d gotten used to, preparing for all of this. You bolt down the food and across from you, the others watch you dig in bewilderment.

"It ain't fancy or nothin’, but that Pearson's a pretty good cook. Some of the time, anyway," Arthur smirks, and you grunt in response, thankful for the excuse to be quiet and unnoticed for a bit. For the way the conversation between the three of them picks up, allowing you to eat, and focus on yourself. Recenter yourself, and calm down a bit. You need to get through this, without messing up too much else. Spend tonight, and then get out of here, before you blow your cover more than you already have.

You’re starting to get tired to the point of just wanting to collapse somewhere for the night, but checking on Arthur’s pupillary reflexes proves to be a more urgent, if momentary concern. The sunset has faded to the point where it’ll start getting hard to see where you’re walking in an hour or so, and you’re not yet convinced he’s recovered enough to be able to risk falling asleep. He'll be getting tired before long, and you want to check his reflexes, at least, before letting him go.

As you finish the bowl, draining the last of the broth and wondering where you’re supposed to put your dishes, you look back to Arthur, a bit shocked to see him alone. The fire has dimmed to near-embers, Susan dismissing herself to bed, and Hosea wandering off to attend to some matter before he retires as well.

"I, uh, I'd like to check your pupillary- your pupils, before too much longer. Just to be sure you’re recovering alright, if it's okay with you." You offer, and Arthur snorts in response. Smirks, repeating back the 'if it's alright with you' as if you’re teasing him. "Normally I'd use a candle or, well, do you know if you have one handy?"

He pauses. Takes a moment to think, and then nods, getting up with a grunt.

"oughta have somethin’ in m'tent, if you don't mind the walk." He grumbles, and then, just as he starts to go, turns to look at you, as if the thought is just now occurring. "You, uh, you got somethin' to sleep in, don't you?"

You snort at that. Roll your eyes, smirking at his briefly concerned expression. Get to your feet, noting that he tosses his bowl to the ground by the fire, keeping yours to set somewhere a bit less hazardous. "Yeah, I'll be fine. I wasn't planning on setting up a fire or anything tonight, but the company's nice."

It’s Arthur’s turn to snort at that, but he lets the matter drop, and you follow behind as he ambles his way off, heading to a larger-sized tent not far off, pitched against the side of one of the huge wagons. The flaps are down, tied closed save for the end facing you, and you pause to take in the layout inside. There's a worn-looking cot in the corner, a trunk settled nonchalantly next to it, a very beaten looking rug on the ground, and a nice little table with a few personal things. The temptation of learning a few personal secrets, though you don't look too closely. There's a mess of papers piled haphazardly on the table, letters by the look of them, but when he waves you inside, you pretend not to have seen. Better to respect his privacy, and not risk having him get nosy in return.

After he hastily throws a few of the letters a little deeper in the stack, out of sight, Arthur bends down in front of the trunk, giving a grunt. Digs around the mess for a moment, worn and threadbare clothing spilling out haphazardly, before he finds what he’s looking for. Pulls a long, fairly thick candle out from somewhere, a picturesque drip of wax melted down it's side. "'ll this be alright?"

You nod, reaching for it when he offers, as well as the matches he pulls from a pocket. "Here, why don't you sit on the bed, I can do this better from that angle."

You're afforded a _look_ at that, but he complies. Plops down on the cot, frowning when you squat down in front of him. Move to strike the matches, unsure how to without the matchbox to strike it on. Your resolve falters, for a moment, and then before you can figure it out, he reaches forward, and takes it from you. Huffs, and strikes the match on one of the metal supports of the cot, and lights the candle before it can go out. Gives you a look that falls somewhere between admonishment and something warmer.

"Oh." You blink, struggling to maintain your composure. "Thanks. I, uh, I could do it myself, you know."

A grunt at that, but you don't give him time to fire back. You don’t exactly need to be _told_ about the childish impudence in your response, and the practically suggestive position you’re in right now. Moving quickly, almost jerkily, bringing the light down away from him, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. 

"So what d’you want me to do?" He drawls, drawing your eyes back up to him. Gives you an odd look, shoulders seemingly pinned back.

You blink at that. Take a breath and collect yourself, willing away your _less than pure_ thoughts. "You don't have to really do anything, this won't take more than a few minutes. Just stay still, and try not to get too tense."

A huff at that, but he doesn't argue. Lets you get close, moving to your knees for comfort, and getting as close to his eye-level as you can.

You take a moment here, studying his pupils carefully, noting that the silver you’d noticed in his pupils is actually light blue. His gaze flickers, wavering from your eyes to lower, lingering just below before darting off, fixing insistently to some point in the distance.

"'re you-" He grumbles, only for you to hush him, bringing the candle back up. Carefully, you move one hand in front of his left eye, feeling him flinch in response, and bring the candle up, studying the pupil of the right, noting when it goes from dilated to constricted without problem. A fraction slower than it might, if you'd been doing the proper test with a flashlight, but not anything concerning, at least to your observation. Once you’re done, you bring the candle down again, and then switch eyes.

He’s more patient this time. Holds pretty still, though there's a hint of nervousness that keeps him antsy, and he doesn’t meet your eyes again.

When you're satisfied with his response, you draw back, noting the way his jaw is held tight, and his shoulders tense. Give him a minute to adjust, waiting for the questions that are sure to come.

Instead you're met with just silence, Arthur just watching you with a distanced look. Eventually, he clears his throat. “Is that, uh, is that all you wanted then?”

You nod, slowly, chasing any other meaning to his words out of your head. “For now, yeah. It looks like your, uh, you should be okay to get some sleep, if you want.” You add, catching yourself before you can forget to ask about his other symptoms. “You, uh, your balance is better, right?...”

He nods, rolling his shoulders and rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, s’fine now. Think I just needed the chance to sit’n recover a little.”

A grunt at that. You can’t help but agree, but don’t want him thinking he’s fully recovered, when he’s not. “Well, I imagine the rest helped, but you’re not completely out of the woods yet. If you have any, uhm, headaches, or, well, dizziness, or irregular mood swings over the next few days, you should stop and lie down for a bit, maybe take a little nap if you can. And, honestly, you shouldn’t be doing anything too strenuous or difficult, if you can help it.” You purse your lips, having to hesitate and stumble over yourself to avoid using words that won’t exist for some thirty, sixty years.

He grits his teeth at that, clearly unhappy, but doesn’t argue.

With that you snuff out the candle, intending to leave him there, but are met instead with Arthur rising up to his feet and coming after you. Fighting back the concern you offer with stubbornness and a roll of his shoulders.

“Here, lemme get you settled, ‘least. Oughta help ya at least a little, after the way you been lookin’ after me...” He insists, not budging when you give him a _look_. You frown, but before you can argue, he’s brushing past you to where you’d left the horses. You pause, watching him for a moment.

Snap out of it before he can get more than a few feet away, not wanting to make him carry any of your heavy, delicate equipment.

  
  


You take a moment to catch up with him, noting the way he ambles. The way his balance seems largely alright, the casual pace to his gait. The stress at the seat of his pants, where his trousers are vaguely strained. Shaking your head, you cut off that last thought, patting him on the shoulder to make him stop.

“Wait, here, let me…” You insist, calling to your horse with a hesitant ‘pspsps’. “I think she likes me, a little bit…”

He huffs at that, but doesn’t comment. Lets you soothe the horse, pulling the lasso from her neck, and handing it back to him. Carefully maneuvering to get the bag of supplies from her back, one hand on her side, though he does give you an odd look. Huffs, when you don’t let him take it, slinging the strap over your shoulder insistently. Arthur rolls his eyes, taking loose hold of the reins when you move past, and you give a smile of thanks as he ties her, loosely, to the bough of nearby ash.

“Why don’t you show me where I can set this up?” You offer, not wanting him to feel entirely superfluous. “I-I’m not really sure where would be a good spot, and I don’t want to set up somewhere unsteady, or in the way…”

A wordless grunt at that, but Arthur nods. Gestures for you to follow again, leading you off back to the edge of camp. Lingers again, as if he’s going to try to grab the bag from your shoulder, but thinks better. “I, uh, if you’re sure. Oughta be gettin’ Miss Grimshaw to help there, I ain’t no good at organizin’...”

You roll your eyes at that, shifting the heavy weight on your shoulder with a casual air. “I’m sure you’ll do fine, you’re the one that lives here, I mean. Besides, she seems really tired, I wouldn’t want to wake her back up for this…”

A half-truth, but one he accepts without question. The older woman had made you vaguely uneasy, brought the sharp memory of dysphoria right back to you with her matronly air, but that’s not something you can really tell him.

Arthur, for his part, just accepts and ambles on, leading you back to a secluded area of the camp. “Fair ‘nough I guess.”

The pair of you walk in relative silence for a minute, the dry ground crunchy under your boots, the faint sound of a hushed conversation at the other side of camp, words indistinguishable for the distance, though the voices are familiar. Arthur seems to be lost in thought, and you lapse into a bit of a daze, focus narrowing on the simple and immediate. The ground before you. What remains of the task before you.

Before you know it, he stops, having led you to a fairly empty space near the back of the camp, not too far from the bluff. It’s only a little troubling, with nothing to really to keep you from being driven right off, should tempers turn, but a little ways off the pine trees have cleared out to reveal the picturesque landscape and open sky. The sky above you is almost perfectly clear, and you can’t help but marvel at it, stopping in your tracks and staring straight up.

The stars, innumerable and starkly clear even to your naked eye, are utterly jaw-dropping, unmarred by smog or more than the faintest of light pollution. Ursa Major is visible to you after just a moment of searching, as well as Lynx. The sky seems so endless, crowded almost, with clusters and galactic clouds you’ve never imagined could be visible…

“Fella? Hey, you alright?” Arthur frowns, and you’re brought back to earth by the worry plain in his voice, the warm hand on your shoulder.

“Oh,” you blink, shaking yourself and giving him a smile. Find yourself almost startled, met for just a moment with his concerned gaze. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just, the stars are so clear….”

He hums at that. Gives you an odd look, as if you’d told him you’d been awe-struck by a rock you’d found. “You ain’t seen stars before?”

You blink at that. Draw yourself back in, shifting the strap on your shoulder in discomfort. “I mean, of course I have. In the, uh, in the city. It’s just… Different, out here. They’re so much brighter…”

A scoff, but Arthur doesn’t give you further grief. Just turns back to the matter at hand, blinking owlishly at the flat, patchy ground in front of you, and you’re given the stark reminder that he’s had an even longer day than you, and you’re only delaying whatever rest he’ll end up getting. 

“A-Anyway, this should be good enough.” You hum, hands suddenly restless on the bag. “Thank you for the help, I can set it up from here…”

Arthur grunts, but you don’t stop to interpret the sound. Instead you waste no time in getting yourself together. Hastily dropping the bag from your shoulder, wincing when it hits the ground with more force than you’d meant, and digging out the canvas tarp from inside. With a grunt of effort, you drag it out to an unclaimed patch of grass, an area that seems relatively flat, without too many stones. The sky above you is fairly clear, with only a few wisps of clouds to obscure the view of the stars.

"You sure you wanna set up over there?" Arthur teases, and you don't have to look to know the condescension on his face. You look anyway, thankful to see that he's taken a seat on a nearby boulder, though he’s sprawled back, clearly exhausted. "Rain comes, n'you're gonna be soaked..."

You hum in response. Stay put, despite the urge to turn back to him, smoothing out a corner of your tarp. "Rain's not likely tonight, not unless those cirrus clouds develop into cirrostratus, but I don’t see that happening with how faint they are. And the stars..."

You look up again, glancing at the sky above you, and you catch him snort at that, mouthing the word ‘cirrostratus’ like it’s something you’ve made up, but can't bring yourself to retort. From here you can clearly make out Cancer, the long string that makes up Draco, and it feels like seeing the sky anew.

When you look back down around again, your eyes land momentarily on his eyes, the momentarily sentimental expression there, and you shake off the thought that it could be for you.

"Seems awful cold," he shrugs, rocking up and easing to his feet. Leaves you there, for a moment, a little lost, before you scramble up, racing him to the bag where your thin bedroll is spilling out onto the grass. The thin fabric is fairly plush, lined with a deceptively dense wool-based fleece, and should keep you warm enough in the late spring chill. Or at least you hope.

Arthur beats you to the bag by a half second, snagging the bedroll just before you can reach it and his fingers graze yours. Frowns, giving it a wry look. “This what you’re sleeping in? This lil thing?” He turns to you, and you wince in response. “You brought _anything_ you’d really need with you, mister?”

You shrug at that. Want to defend yourself, but don’t have much to offer. No connections, no horse, little food. No protection, and what looks to him like barely any shelter from the cold. You can’t begin to imagine what this looks like to him, what sorts of questions he’s surely dying to ask.

He says none of them.

“It’s fine.” You eventually manage. Shrug, lying with only a little difficulty. “I slept in it last night, it’s warm enough. Why, did you have something else you wanted me to use?”

A beat of silence, and with that the tension is broken. Arthur snorts, tossing you the bedroll hastily. “Just checkin’. This, uh, this all you need, or s’there some fancy contraption you’re gonna pull outta that thing?”

He delivers the joke completely deadpan, not giving you space to even process the quip before he turns away. Stretches, seeming to be ready for bed himself.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll leave you to it, I ‘spose.” He offers, and you busy yourself with your work. With getting the mat pinned down, the bedroll laid. Miss the downright forlorn look he gives, and the way he shifts his weight nervously. “Good night,”

“Night,” you hum, looking up to see just the antsy way he’s standing, waiting for you to be done with him. He gives you a brief wave goodbye, and you smile in response. Internally chide yourself, knowing that you’re risking too much as is, that this close proximity to such a suspicious group, before you’ve gotten your story straightened, is perilous enough, without getting careless with someone, letting your guard down around him.

It’s going to be a long enough couple of months, perhaps even half a year, without throwing pining after someone you could never have on top of it.


End file.
